


The Beloved

by Nine_Stoic_Crayolas



Category: Naruto
Genre: Aro/Ace characters will be mentioned, Crossover from FFnet, F/F, F/M, Friends with benefits - but not who you think, Geisha, Haruno Sakura loves freely, Honeypot, Kiba is bi, Older sister!Sakura, Overprotective!Sakura, Prostitution, Sakura has actual!friends outside of Team Seven and Ino, Sakura is TIRED, Sakura's my Ace Baby in this one, assassin!Sakura, inflitration-agent, mamakura, rape/noncon, saboteur, she has a baby bro, there will be triggers mayhap please be careful
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-06-08 14:05:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15245010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nine_Stoic_Crayolas/pseuds/Nine_Stoic_Crayolas
Summary: When Team Seven leaves, Sakura finally learns. Assassin!Sakura





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Please Note: there will be triggers, and I shall mention them in warnings if they're to be described in a chapter.   
> \- Also: I already wrote this story on FFnet but I'm editing it chappie by chappie so here are the first couple that I've already re-done.

Sakura stumbled. Her hands left bloody prints on the bark of the tress around her, slippery and slick, the wounds that peppered her fingers filling with splinters. She didn’t dare wince, didn’t dare make a sound—just in case.

Just in case they heard, and they caught her—even though, logically, she knew they were dead there was still a lurching, uneasy sense of paranoia climbing up her spine as she wove and ducked between trees, stumbling and staggering to make her way to Konoha.

There had been too much loss this month, too much tragedy—she didn’t need to come home in a body bag; wouldn’t, couldn’t, come home in a body bag—so she didn’t breathe a sound.

The deep wound in her side throbbed; infection ran rampant beneath her skin, festering in her veins, ready to strike out at the first sign of weakness. Her breathing was raspy and rattling, and occasionally, her breath would hitch, once, twice, blood coagulating on her tongue and Sakura knew it was because something had hit her lungs.

The Yakuza had been frantic at the end, scrabbling at her thighs to catch any inch of her, to harm her in any way possible, and by the way her vision was fuzzy, and how she was struggling to land one foot in front of the other—slow acting poison, she was sure—he had made that last hit a good one.

_Almost there,_ she thought to herself as she spied the edges of Konoha’s wall. _Almost there,_ she repeated, her fingers trembling with exertion at the way her body moved quickly and soundlessly through the trees.

Her vision blackened for a moment, white spots dancing in front of her eyes and her food slipped. She wheezed, louder than she should have, as a branch smacked her in the middle of her chest, her entire body crumbling as her hands jerked away from the branch she had been grasping above her.

_Kaizo,_ she thought sparingly as she urged herself up, biting down on her lip so hard she drew blood, _would have laughed himself sick at my clumsiness._

Even in her mind, the humor fell flat, sickening in the legacy Kaizo had left behind. Kaizo who was sweet and kind, who never failed to bring a smile to others’ faces, Kaizo who had managed to make even Boar-Taichou chuckle, although Sakura was sure that in hearing those throaty echoes, her lifespan had been shortened twice over.

_Kaizo is dead,_ she thought despairingly, trying to blink away the tears that threatened to overcome her. _Dead, dead, dead._

She’d had to leave him in a mess of his own guts; sliced limbs and a butchered face, eyes hanging out of their sockets. A bloody, gory mess of what used to be, and what could have been. She’d choked on her nausea when she’d seen him there—a mountain of blood and chalky-white bone, sticking up at odds and ends—and had heaved before she had to hightail out of the yakuza’s base with a speed she hadn’t used since she had been a genin and in Team Seven, twisting away from Sasuke’s sharp fists.

Sakura bit down on a sob at the memory of her teammate’s glazed, glassy eyes and pale skin, blood pooling around him. She had tried at first—to scoop up the intestines and clutch at the decapitated head—to put him into a sealing scroll marked for desiccated ANBU bodies; but she had heard the skitter of incoming footsteps and chatter of impending voices and she’d had to leave his remains, hands stained with blood, gore sticky underneath her fingernails and leap out of the compound.

It had taken her more than a month to get to the edges of the land of Iron, during the course of which, she’d taken it upon herself to hunt down the men who dared to follow her. She’d left them in messy piles of blood, choking on their spines; but there were still some who had managed to clip her and one particularly skilled yakuza had carved the two thick, twisting wounds that crawled down her throat and temple.

She had been blinded by the blood, the trauma of the wound on her neck—a twisted, mockery of a lightning bolt with echoes of the chidori she remembered Kakashi-sensei using—and that of the one that inched down her temple, curving through her cheek, ending at the edge of her mouth. Once she’d recovered, spending three agonizing days groaning into the mud, she had jerked herself awake and made herself _move._

Sakura had promised herself she wouldn’t end up home in a body bag, and she _wouldn’t._

_Almost—Almost there, Sakura._ She thought again, and a breathless smile curved her face as she came nearer and nearer to Konoha’s safe walls. If she squinted, she could even see the guards at the base of the two doors.

As she leaped from branch to branch, she noted that her knees were getting weaker. The constant strain of movement and the fact that she had barely rested four days was making her head woozy and blinking black spots fill her eyes. As her eyes fluttered dangerously, she was glad that she could see the red of the Uzushio spiral.

_Please let me make it. Please, please, please._ She begged some foreign kami, _they’re waiting for me._

It took her long—too long—to stumble onto the paved path that led her to Konoha. Her breath hitched painfully in her lungs, the jarring of the wound at her side making her breath shorter and shorter and the nasty, pasty scabbed wounds on her face and neck pulsed with dirt, infection and sweat.

It hurt too much when she dropped from the trees to the ground, the painful jolt of her side, the way she could _feel_ how her wounds were slowly but surely tearing more of her skin apart, but she hobbled as quickly as she could, making her way to her village as soundlessly and easily as possible.

As she stepped inside the gates, she saw the shocked-white faces of the guards and the only thought she had before the edging black at her vision finally took over, was that the guards must have been happy to see her if they were rushing to catch her.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Team Seven leaves, Sakura finally learns. Assassin!Sakura

When she woke, the monitor beeped quietly next to her head. Her eyes fluttered open, a soft groan escaping her mouth as the light burned her cornea, making her flinch. A crick in her neck cracked, tension loosening as she jerked away from the light that was shining down into her eyes. She felt the sting of antiseptic on her wounds, the slight burn of infection lingering on the edges of her ribs, and eventually, she managed to edge her tired eyes open.

Sakura saw honey-wheat-blonde first. Stormy amber eyes stared her down, red, red lips tugged into a fierce frown. Tsunade sat on the bed opposite of hers, arms crossed over her heaving cleavage, concern flickering behind her amber depths. She looked tired—her skin was sallow and gray looking, and she seemed older, almost her true age instead of the one her jutsu made her appear to be. When she made a breathless pant, Tsunade’s eyes flickered over her bedraggled appearance and how her hands trembled on the clinical, clean, white sheets of the hospital bed Sakura occupied.

“Sakura.” Tsunade’s voice rumbled throughout the hospital room. The hoarse croak of her voice made Sakura want to wince in sympathy; her mentor—if she could really call her that and there were many, many times she did doubt—sounded half immersed in her worry and anger, most likely ready to give her a ferocious beat down over the state of her return.

 “You overdid it.”

This time, Sakura winced. The healing skin of her wounds gave a painful twitch, tearing and coming back together in a melee of burning itches, stabbing twinges and the spasm of her mending face and neck.

She had no doubt that Tsunade did her best to try and regenerate the skin. Her mentor—teacher? There had to be a better name—had always tried to make the scars she came back with look less severe. Sometimes, like the one she’d first received on her forearm, she triumphed over, only the bumps of time remaining to show the faint history that lay beneath her skin; and others, like the searing, scorched words that were emblazoned into her stomach, she didn’t.

This time, it looked like she hadn’t won—Tsunade had probably left it there to heal naturally and to teach her a lesson in negligence.

_(“A medical ninja doesn’t let herself get caught unaware, Haruno.”)_

Of course, Sakura did not forget.

Kaizo’s high scream had haunted her all the way to Konoha.

Even now, as she lay numbly on the hospital bed, she could still remember the way his blood-slicked hair had felt under her fingers as she tried to stuff his severed head into a scroll—

And—

_Shinobi do not show emotion, Sakura._

She took a deep breath, ignoring the jerking sting of the wounds on her throat and cheek. Turning to her Hokage—there, that was better. Respectful too—she donned the mask of professionalism and began to recount what had happened.

“I apologise Hokage-sama. The mission went downhill quickly and Kaizo and I found ourselves—incapacitated.” The words took so much effort out of her; she had to look away from Tsunade’s stormy, calculating eyes and the disapproving, pitiful twitch to her mouth, opting to stare blankly out of the high window.

If he could see her now—balking in the face of authority, trying to shut it all down, lock the grief under years of _not now Sakura, later, later_ —Kaizo would have laughed at her. She had only had him for a teammate a handful of times, but she still remembered how his slightly awkward, squawking laugh echoed around them when he did not know how else to approach a situation. Naturally, the ANBU proctors and high-end officers found it _annoying_ and a _liability._

_(A liability that lay dead at her feet in a dank cave, surrounded by crazed laughter and steely eyes.)_

Sakura found it somewhat charming—but mostly, refreshing. It had been nice, for those few, few times, to hear it. Had been nice to break up the routine depravation for a dose of normality.

“Incapacitated?” Tsunade-sama prompted, and then, suddenly, Sakura shook herself because—because—because she was an _assassin_ and _not_ a child; she should not be freezing up like an innocent twelve-year-old genin when her leader demands mission reports. “You didn’t use your medical abilities?”

 “No Hokage-sama. I needed to conserve as much chakra as I could when operating in the field and showing my skills in the environment we were subjected to would have only led to more suspicion. Jackal and I found ourselves at the drop off location at 0300 hours. Everything went well, the client asked us to shed our masks but Jackal and I refused as per regulation. The client proceeded to explain the situation—as I relayed in our previous report—a Yakuza of unknown origin. Upon seeing the target, Jackal and I reached the conclusion that he hailed from Grass or Waterfall. The group’s objective was to gain control over the trading routes and impose a tax upon the villagers—one little girl, three chickens and weapons for every three months of protection. Due to their intimidation tactics, the townspeople had no choice to agree.” Sakura reached up to press a hand against her throat, to alleviate the hoarse, death-rasp her voice had become.

Tsunade slapped her hand away with a sting of chakra.

She glared.

Tsunade raised an eyebrow as if daring her to object.  

Sakura sighed, then, unable to do anything but wilt in the face of her leader. She had been conditioned not to question authority and with Tsunade sitting _right there, across from her,_ Sakura wouldn’t, _couldn’t,_ dare to disobey her. It would have been easier to tear out her fingernails nail by nail than to continue to do as she wished.

She coughed, trying to clear her throat so she could get rid of some of the build-up so that she could speak clearly. Blood splattered across her tongue and coated her lips a shining, blossoming red—Sakura was vaguely alarmed, until the medical textbooks she had loved to read during her time as a genin came to memory.

_Sometimes, after the wound has been cleaned and healed with medical chakra, there will be residue in the form of coagulated blood, puss and other. Scan to see if infected, but otherwise, leave be._

“If you leave your throat alone,” Tsunade glared at her, confirming both her thoughts and reprimanding her for the actions. “Your voice will get better.”

Sakura hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should ask about the deep, cutting wounds that lined her neck and cheek. Tsunade must have seen something on her face, because her eyes shuttered, something a little like pity and anger flashing in her amber depths.

“You will be able to continue your duties in both ANBU divisions,” Tsunade pressed her lips together, a burning moment of regret filling her face before she pushed forward. “We both know you can work wonders with genjutsu and a makeup kit…you are too good to lose; even to deep-tissue scarring, Sakura.”

Something like relief came over her, even as she realized that this would have been the only way for her to ever retire from ANBU—at least, until she trained another cadet and there hadn’t been any takers for the Seduction corps nor for her high rank in the Saboteur squad. Her corps were called the _suicide squads,_ because no one made it past the third year in Seduction and Saboteurs had a ridiculously high kill-rate that landed them as international targets in their fourth week.

(Unless—unless they were lucky. And Sakura, for all her bad fate and misdirection in life, was ridiculously lucky.)

She nodded once, letting the familiar burn of her eyes shrink away under her professionalism. She would not cry, not here. There was no escaping her duties—not when she was this invaluable.

“Thank you, Hokage-sama.” Sakura agreed immediately, demure as always in the face of her superior officers. “Shall I continue?”

Tsunade nodded.

“Jackal and I adhered to standard protocol; initial surveillance of the area, weeding out the weaknesses and strengths, finding ways to approach the targets. The traditional week and a half was the amount of time we were able to get their patterns and habits down to join up with the group. Jackal went undercover as a wayward bandit—a rival clan that had been ousted by the Daimyo last year. His role was to get a hands-on approach to a mission in ANBU, an assessment given by Boar-taichou, as well as to get close enough to the target to kill him.” She paused for a moment, trying to catch her breath. Her voice had nearly swindled to a whisper, the hoarse rasp grating at the dryness of her throat.

Tsunade mutely passed her a glass of water in a shitty paper cup. The water was cool, soothing her torn throat and Sakura nodded at her gratefully before continuing.

“I was undercover as a geisha in the local tavern.” She ignored Tsunade’s sharp eyes on her face and spoke on. “I fed Jackal false information that he then gave to the leader of the Yakuza. My kill count, at the time, remained at zero. The situation was proceeding well…but the Yakuza caught a hold of some information from our initial client—“

“We were set up?” Tsunade hissed, fury lighting her eyes.

Sakura shook her head. “No, Hokage-sama. Nonoshi Teramiya was tortured and killed in the third week of our mission. When I got hold of the information, it was an hour old and I attempted to confront it, change it or manipulate it, but the Yakuza had strung him up in the square as a power play. Jackal, I learnt soon after, was in interrogation. I was still undercover, so I used the excuse of the Yakuza leader—Horomiya Yokushi—needing a geisha for the night. Infiltration was easy, and I secured Jackal’s location as I…incapacitated the target.”

Tsunade frowned slightly. “Do you have any ideas as to why the Yakuza leader suddenly knew of yours and Jackal’s mission?”

Sakura paused, thoughts racing. She had _suspicions,_ ideas and half-formed theories, but nothing that was solid—nothing that would stand for trial.

“I order you to tell me your suspicions, every idea or half-baked theory you have on this Yakuza group, Otter.” Tsunade ordered, her voice nearly hoarse in anger.

Sakura didn’t hesitate. “My information is not complete, or backed up, Hokage-sama, but…there were whispers of the Akatsuki and other, more malicious parties involved with the Yakuza. Some said it was Iwa, or Kumo, but…there was a rumor about the recently passed Mizukage—Yagura…he had apparently passed through the town a couple of years ago, and they remembered the oddest things about him; his taste for salmon onigiri, addiction to folk music as well as…the rather large, intimidating partner.”

Tsunade arched an impressive eyebrow. “Intimidating partner?”

“Yes.” Sakura’s mouth twisted. “However, I was unable…to achieve more information out of my target, as Jackal’s interrogator interrupted me. I disarmed the leader with genjutsu, and put the rest of his guard out of commission. However…I underestimated his affinity for genjutsu, as we were told that he was a simple, _civilian_ Yakuza, and he broke out of it, catching my ribs. The rest of his foot soldiers were alerted of my presence and I took care of them swiftly. Jackal…didn’t make it.”

Her words were succinct, brief and bitter.

“There is no ANBU scroll for him.”

Tsunade did not press, instead, moving for her to continue her report.

“Unfortunately, in the scuffle, one of the soldiers was able to send off a signal to one of their brother Yakuza and I was intercepted on my way to Konoha—gaining the scars on my neck and face.” Sakura let her hands shake for a moment, before bowing her head, chin touching her chest. “The mission failed, Tsunade-sama.”

The beeping of the monitor next to her was the only thing that made noise in the tiny hospital room. The top floor of the ICU was quiet, which wasn’t at all that strange. If she strained her ears, she could hear the ticking of the clock outside her room. Sakura didn’t look up from her hands, simply hoisting herself up further and leaning against the wall, not bothering to shove down the wince at the searing pain in her ribs.

Her throat itched from the gauze and the new skin, as did the scar on her cheek and Sakura desperately wanted to take it off, but she didn’t dare move before Tsunade acknowledged her.

“Sakura.” Tsunade’s firm, unyielding voice echoed in the room, but Sakura didn’t wince.

She didn’t look up either—she didn’t think she could handle looking into the face of another disappointment.

She hadn’t failed many missions, but the ones she did…those were the ones that etched themselves into her skin far deeper than any of her scars ever would.

“You did well.”

Sakura’s eyes shot up, her mouth falling open before she could control the reaction. Tsunade wore a small, brittle smile, her eyes desperately sad, but she leaned forward to drag her into a tight hug.

“There was nothing else you could have done.” Her Hokage whispered to her. Tears burned in Sakura’s throat and she swallowed, her vision becoming dangerously blurry. “You completed the objective of the mission, as planned and you learnt of the Yakuza’s motives, background and other neglected details.”

“I failed Jackal—“

“Jackal was good and talented, but not everyone can work their way out a pinch like you can. You are…exceptionally talented…he will be missed.”

Sakura closed her eyes, swallowing back the memories of Kaizo’s joyous older sister. _You’ll bring him back safe,_ she’d asked, gray eyes painfully innocent. _There are rumors about you—please keep him safe._

(Rumors that were swathed in blood and carnage, rumors that spoke of her like a war god in a battlefield—one that was lucky, so, so lucky—there were times where she could still _feel them against her skin—)_

_(She was not lucky.)_

Sakura wanted to vomit, to tear the skin from her bones, to go back to the base and scrape up every inch of Kaizo’s body, even if it meant skinning her fingers raw. Nausea overcame her and she felt _ill_ knowing that she’d failed Kaizo. She felt hot and cold and numb all at once—like someone had scraped the bottom of her soul and come up with nothing left.

Tsunade rubbed her back soothingly and Sakura melted into her embrace, boneless and sobbing. Her tears drenched her mentor’s coat, and she clutched desperately at her shoulders, her body shaking so hard she could barely _breathe._

It was when she started to hyperventilate—eyes wide, breath hitching too fast, tears rushing from her eyes—that Tsunade injected her with a sedative. She held her hand while Sakura went to sleep, her eyes stony, a gleam of intense sorrow and loss glinting whenever the light hit her face a certain way.

Her eyes started to droop, mouth releasing the last quick breath. Tsunade kept rubbing a circle into her palm, and just as Sakura started to drift away, she murmured something quick and fleeting.

“I’m glad you’re home safe, Sakura-chan.”

Sakura gave her a wobbling smile, tears still burning the raw skin under her eyes.

“Yeah,” she whispered back, her body loose and calmed from the sedative thrumming in her veins. “Yeah me too.”

She fell asleep to Tsunade running a hand through her long hair, to the blinking of the dim lights and the beeping monitor by her bedside.

~.~

Near the border of Fire Country, two people walked down a dusty, winding road. The sun was high above their heads, scorching down on the earth, burning through the forest treetops, beating down on unprotected skin.

Naruto scowled, scratching at the itch that was forming between his shoulder blades. It was hot, _too_ hot. The kind of hot that made people want to lounge around at home in underwear and sit in front of the fan, cool wind blowing in their faces, as they chomped down on watermelon slices.

“ _Are we there yet?”_ He whined, hoping that if he fluffed his hair enough it would create enough movement for a tiny breeze and relieve him of the heat that seemed to settle in his bones.

Jiraiya didn’t turn around or answer, but Naruto could see that he was just as hot and lethargic as he was. They had been walking all over Fire Country, down to Nami no Kuni and then over to Takigakure before they’d lumbered their way back to Fire.

“Pervy-sage.” Naruto lamented again. “ _Pervy-sage!_ Are. We. _There yet?”_

“We’re almost to the waypoint, Naruto, _stop whining.”_ Jiraiya groaned, running a hand over his sweaty forehead.

“But—Pervy-sage, we’re so close, can’t we just sleep _here_ —“

“Naruto they have _mixed_ _onsen_.”

Naruto scoffed in near bewilderment. “It’s boiling, dattebayo!”

“Research waits for no man!” Jiraiya shook his fist, a lustful gleam coming to his eyes.

“Or weather.” Naruto grumbled under his breath. Then, he suddenly perked up. “If we go faster then we can see Baa-chan sooner!”

“…You’d better keep that smug smirk off your face, boy.”

Naruto’s laugh echoed in the trees and Jiraiya hid his own, cheerful smile.


	3. Chapter Three

Sakura made her way out the hospital smiling grimly at the shinobi who passed by her. Some ANBU cadets bowed their heads in mourning and a couple of others followed her with their eyes, loss shining in their faces.

Right now—

Right now she couldn’t _deal_ with their pity. Her throat was still raw from her wound and the tears, the sobs having ripped through some of the stitches Tsunade had put in, but her mentor had said nothing as she stiffly sutured her torn skin back together again. Her fingers had been soft against her throat, and even though Sakura knew there wasn’t even an _inkling_ of ulterior motive behind her actions, her shoulders were still tense, her eyes still riveted on her face, hands ready to pounce.

Sakura had jolted out of her stupor when one of them made her way towards her, face shadowed by bereavement, hands clenched at their sides. “Sorry about your loss.” They told her quietly, and Sakura could only give them sad eyes and a twisted smile.

_(“Don’t worry taichou,” he beamed at her, eyes sparkling. “We’ll be done in no time and I’ll be a real operative soon!”)_

She bowed her head instead. “It was too soon.”

They—he—made a move to put his hand on her shoulder, but she’d already walked passed him, head held high, eyes burning. He let her pass through, and she felt his eyes burn into her back, knowing that when she needed them, to grieve, to let go, they’d come if she called.

A lingering through whispered in her mind, _I wonder if he was friends with Kaizo._ She pushed it away almost as quickly as it came.

The sun was low and heavy in the sky, burning against her tender skin. It had only been a couple of hours since she’d arrived in Konoha but it felt like a small eternity in the lifeless hospital, surrounded by beeping monitors and the slow, steady dripping of the IVs.

She walked slowly, carefully, not daring to jolt her injuries. Sakura danced her fingers across her ribs, checking again, and again, and again if she was good and whole and _safe._ That there was no pulsing, throbbing infection ready to kill. She had faith in Tsunade, but even she knew of lingering sicknesses that slowly drove shinobi to the grave.

And she had promised— _sworn_ —that she would make it back, that she’d be intact.

Sakura stifled a grunt of frustration as the gauze began to itch; she’d shifted too much, and now it felt awkward and bulky against her skin, like an extra layer of fat that she wasn’t used to. There had been a time once, long ago, when she’d have been able to pinch the skin between her fingers and pull, healthy flush pinkening at the pressure. Now, she had no skin to pull, no fat to pinch, only papery skin and thin bones.

_(That was one of the rules—no fat. No fat, no fat, no fat, no fat. You are lean, small, underdeveloped. You will be our ace in the hole. They won’t see you coming._

_She’d laughed then, at the stupid pun._

_She wasn’t laughing now.)_

When she pulled the thick, heavy gauze off her face, a civilian gasped. She suppressed a sigh that sounded a little too much like a sob, and instead tucking her trembling fingers into her pockets and slouched down, hoping that if she hid her face into her collar far enough, no one would be able to see the mess she’d become. Her throat itched, and her skin was so tender against the scratching fabric of her shirt that she felt actual tears burn in her eyes.

(She supposed she looked monstrous with the illusion of a severed neck, the parted, scarred skin that ran all the way down to the corner of her mouth, twisting her face— _disfigurement, disfigurement,_ they whispered in her mind.

That’s all she was now, a blemish on perfect skin, a smudged ring of black on a perfect record.)

_Ryu._ She though bitterly, biting down on her tongue. _Oh Ryu, what will you think of me? Will I be your monster? Will you think of me and see my scars, burning through everything you thought as good?_

Sakura felt off kilter, surrounded by curious prying eyes, the dismay bubbling under her skin, like a roiling, thunderous burn that wanted to push and tear out of her. They were staring, staring, staring and all she wanted was to _leave._ She wanted to hide, she ached to run all the way back to her home in the tiny cottage, to run to—

The world was spinning around her and her heart beat fast in her chest, her breath coming in short pants—

“Sakura.” Someone brought her from her thoughts with a firm, gentle voice.

Familiar brown eyes. Concerned brown eyes, watching, careful. A part of her yearned to tear them out so they’d just _stop—_

“Shika-chan.” She smiled a little at the ponytail that stuck up this way and that. Her skin pulled, the scar contorting her face. She wondered if she looked more monstrous then—smiling, eyes dead, scars wracking her skin.

_(Just how many would she have to get before they realized she was going insane?)_

“How have you been?” She said, voice light and fluttering, like they taught her. _Hide, hide, hide._

She saw him eye her for a moment. (And didn’t she hate that word, _eye?)_. Saw him watching how her fingers trembled on her ANBU mask, slung onto her belt, how her chin was drowning in the collar of her jonin vest, her hair pulled in a messy ponytail, muddy strands stuck to her neck, flirting with the zig-zagging scar that ran across it.

Sakura hadn’t realized she was holding her katana until his eyes flickered down to her whitened knuckles.

_Oh._ She thought. _Maybe I shouldn’t have kept it out._

“I’ve been good.” He said, watching (always _watching)_ how her frame relaxed and she slid the katana back into the sheath that ran across her back. He slouched, hands in his pockets, drawing himself nearer. “Planning the next chunnin exams.”

He said it so languidly that she had to wonder if the brief flicker of worry that had run through his eyes had been real at all.

She hummed softly, and remembered that she was home now. She was home and she was safe, she was home and she was safe and there wasn’t any reason to keep her guard up. She felt her shoulders slump.

_She was so tired._

“That’s good,” she grinned a little, adding a flash of a dimple. _Cheeky girl._ _Show them you’re not broken._ “That’s wonderful. Seeing much of Temari-chan these days?”

He flushed, looking away.

A smirk pulled at her lips, a real one this time, because Shika could never hide anything from her, not since they’d been in the academy.

“Why, I hope you’re using protection.” This time, her voice was sly and brittle, hollow and something that Shikamaru wisely didn’t comment on.

Instead, he sighed, as if put on. He loved her, she knew, and he found her smart too which was why he dragged her out, winding her down from kills and adrenaline highs. _He worries you know,_ Ino had told her once when she was back from another A-rank mission. Her eyes had been so blue then. _We all do._

“Troublesome woman,” he grumbled and she laughed, a little too loud, a little too brittle, but it was a laugh and she saw Shikamaru’s lips quirk.

_Smart boy,_ a part of her drawled.

_Shut up, shut up, shut up._ She thought furiously, hands biting into the meat of her palm.

She locked that part of her up, made it slither back into the foundations of the cracks, and bolted the door shut. Still, it haunted her, ominous silence ringing in her head. _I’m still here,_ that part of her sang. _I’ll always be here._

At her silence, Shikamaru dragged himself closer, looking all the more bereaved.

_He’s worried. So worried._

She wanted to tell him she was fine, but the words wouldn’t come. They felt too bitter on her tongue, a lie that not even she could push through.

“Come on,” he said gruffly. “Let’s get you home.”

They made their way to the edge of the shinobi district slowly, her feet dragging, her throat itching, fingers twitching in her pockets. They talked about who was out on missions, _Kiba, Choji, Hinata. They come back tonight._ Shikamaru told her that her plants were growing well, that her neighbor was taking care of them properly this time, and that Gaara had sent her another letter, _he’s worried too, ever since you went to Suna, he badgers Temari into asking about you._ He said nothing about little Ryu and for that, Sakura was glad, because she was sure that if someone brought up his name before she was ready, she’d do something she couldn’t take back.

Her ribs were still fragile, and sometimes he hung back, eyes roving over her frame, hands lingering out of his pockets to catch her, just in case. He even, grudgingly of course, offered to help her walk, but she’d waved him off with a troubled smile.

“If I can’t even walk home, what good am I as a shinobi?” She had chuckled bitterly. She’d nearly raised an eyebrow at the worry that gleamed in calf-brown eyes.

“Sakura, I don’t think you’ve got to worry about that.” He muttered under his breath.

She’d snickered then, a little bitter, a little happier, and he’d rolled his eyes.

Not quite fast enough to hide the relief in them, though.

“How’s ANBU these days?” He asked as they turned down her street. He slouched as he walked, matching her own stance and Sakura wondered if he was mirroring her on purpose, trying to re-establish their rapport.

It was a quiet evening, she noticed, and Sakura was glad that it seemed like it was going to rain soon. The heat of the summer was starting to wash away with rolling clouds and crackling thunderstorms that edged at the confines of the clear-blue sky. She knew Ryu would want to play in his yellow rain boots and red overcoat and she couldn’t wait—he was always so adorable.

Sakura didn’t answer for a while, preferring to watch as the sun trickled behind the Kage Mountain, enshrouding the village with hazy darkness, the honey-yellow electric lights flickering on with a dull hum, filling the streets with a homely silence.

“It’s…alright.” She answered slowly. “Lost my teammate.”

He faltered for a moment in his step, alarm in his eyes and then hesitated as he asked, “It wasn’t…?”

The truth was, Kiba was the one who kept her sane, who kept her whole and intact. They all knew it, they all witnessed it, and they all made sure that he came back alive and unscathed to quell her mental state.

_He’s one of your anchors._ Ino had told her. _You’re precariously low on them, so he’s the one we try to keep somewhat safer than the others, for you._

“No. Kiba’s not in ANBU this month, Shika. ‘Sides, you know he’s on a mission with Hina-chan and Choji-kun.” She said quickly, reassuring him. She watched his chest drop in relief and wondered if she could ever be as free with her movements. “And I’m glad…I wouldn’t have wanted him to be there—not for this one.”

Shikamaru’s eyes hardened and the chunnin scowled. “They still have you on those missions?”

Even though his voice was light and curious, Sakura knew better. His eyes were shadowed and cutting, anger thinning his lips, hands tightening at his sides. They’d talked about it once, and only once, when she’d turned fourteen and they’d thrown her a welcome home party. _Why?_ It’d been a vague question, but she’d known, instantly, what he was talking about. _Daycare costs money, Shika,_ She’d said and that had been that.

He hadn’t asked again, and even though she knew he disapproved, he also knew that there was _no way in hell_ that she was accepting charity. She loved him though, because he’d gone to extreme lengths to make sure she knew that he saw her no differently.

“Once you join—“

“You never really leave, yeah. Yeah I know.” Shikamaru sighed, running a hand through inky locks. “Still…it sucks.”

She choked on a bitter laugh. “Ah. Yeah. That it does.”

Sakura saw his face soften, just the slightest amount, and he raised his arms, tugging her into a loose hug. He made sure to do it slowly, so she could see his every movement. He was warm and solid, something that Sakura was infinitely grateful for in the darkening night and cooling sky. He smelt of smoke and wood, a little trickle of summer breeze stuck on his vest, and her cheek rested on his chest. She was still too small to lift her chin over his shoulder, and he settled his chin on the crown of her head, his hands splaying across her back protectively.

They both pretended like she hadn’t hesitated before wrapping her arms around him.

She breathed him in, and thought of home. Of the people who built her back up carefully, softly, gently. Of how they loved her ferociously, of how they never _ever_ let her down. If he noticed that his vest was a little damper than usual when she pulled away, he didn’t say anything.

“Thank you, Shika.” She whispered softly, wiping away the wet on her cheeks.

His hand drifted towards her shoulder, “The least I can do, Sakura. I know Ino doesn’t— _can’t_ —take those missions.” _We’re here for you, always, always, always. You are not alone, not ever._ Is what he didn’t voice.

She watched the frustration rise in his face, eyes darkening in anger and she poked his (still rounded) cheek to grab his attention. Her eyes were fierce, mouth slanted in a scowl.

“You should be _glad.”_ Sakura said brazenly, boldly. “Ino’s strong, Shika, but she’s not that strong. And you should be happy that she doesn’t have to be.”

“I know.” He whispered back, eyes still searching her face, lingering over the twisting scars. “I am. I swear I am.”

There was a flickering moment, there in the quiet darkness, the light of the street lamps layering her face in honey light, that made her eyes shine and hair spark a pretty magenta, and even with all her scars and sharpened angles of her face, she was a vision of loveliness.

It was then that Shikamaru realized why she was so good at those missions. She was naturally charming; she oozed innocence, even with the scars and the little ridge that sat between her brows.

_(“She enchants, bewitches,” one ANBU operative had said once on a smoke break. It was cold, and their breath billowed in little white clouds around them. His foot had fallen asleep in his shoe and he desperately wished for the heat of a warm bowl of soup. “It’s her eyes, really. Doe-eyed innocence, that girl. She could charm a rock to follow her around.” Then he’d leered and Shikamaru had pretended like his knuckles weren’t bruised the next morning.)_

She was ridiculously pretty. Not Ino pretty with porcelain skin and pretty blue eyes, and not Hinata pretty either with perfect, unblemished skin and beautiful, silky hair; not even Tenten pretty with the large brown eyes and wide, inviting smile.

Sakura was pretty in a way that pulled you in; striking features that hooked you by the navel and made you want to trace every curve, dip and lush arch. Her eyes were large, long-lashed and her lips full and puckered. Her forehead was still a little high, but her face was heart-shaped, high cheekbones sculpted almost cuttingly, jaw just a little rounded.

There was a dash of freckles that dusted over her nose.

_(“Haruno’s striking. She makes you look at her just a little longer, to capture just what exactly is captivating about her. It’s why she’s so good at_ _ those _ _missions, if you catch my drift.”)_

Every time he saw her, Shikamaru couldn’t help but wish she hadn’t been quite so pretty, quite so…enchanting.

( _The first time…after, she’d looked ragged. Her lips were chapped, eyes wild, and she was trying to focus on what Ino was saying, but she kept spacing out. She muttered things under her breath, watched the booths around them, her fingers tapping against the wooden table. He watched her eyes harden at the way a man leaned into a grimacing woman. She stood then, interrupting Ino’s chatter, and wore a sly smile, a dimple flashing in her cheek. Her hips swayed almost captivatingly, and she looked different then—inviting, catlike in her curiosity—a little spark of lust filling her eyes as she circled her prey. He remembered the way she’d towered over the man, kunai at his neck, and spat in face._

“ _Disgraceful,” She’d hissed. He whined, blood dripping from his nose. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”_

_Ino hadn’t been able to move a muscle._

_They’d still been thirteen.)_

He didn’t say anything though, because he spied the door of her little cottage home behind her. Instead of letting the damn that built behind his tongue loose, he smiled at her, just a little tightly.

If he did it quick enough, she wouldn’t notice.

“Sleep tight, Sakura.” He told her softly. _Treat her with care,_ Ino had said once, eyes impossibly sad. _Please treat her with care. She’s not as strong as you all like to think._ “Choji’s invited you for barbeque tomorrow and his mother said that even if he’s delayed, we can all still come over.”

“I’ll bring Ryu!” She called, eyes crinkling.

_Real smile._ He noticed. _That’s a real one, I’m sure of it._

Sakura watched him wave bye, and she let the smile fall a little. Happiness hummed through her veins, filling her with gentle warmth that made her very seams glow with joy. He slunk back into the night like a lazy cat, her eyes never leaving him.

“Maa,” She muttered as he turned the corner. “You all worry far too much.”

Sakura shook her head, turning back towards the scraped red door with the heavy black knocker. She bent down, knees cracking, to edge the keys from underneath a brick laying at the foot of her door. She frowned a little when she spotted the note from Toya-san, in swift, scribbled ink.

_Sorry for leaving early, Sakura-chan, my nephew fell grievously ill. I only left when I heard you returned safely, my child. I hope that you are well. I will see you soon, to fatten you up._

(“Remember—no fat.”)

Gripping the key in her hand, she sighed, knowing that Toya was mostly reliable and it must have been a real emergency for her to have abandoned little Ryu like that. Straightening, she cracked her knuckles, nervous butterflies—a little like nausea, a little like fear—making her swallow hard.

Before she opened the door, she formed a couple of seals, layering genjutsu over her neck and face. There was a part of her, a rational part of her, that told her she was doing it so that she wouldn’t scare little Ryu. He’d never seen any of her other scars, not even when he’d begged her, eyes pleading. She’d stoutly refused, every single time. She didn’t want him to see the track of regrowth, the pink of new flesh, the white of her thick, curling scars.

The most he’d ever seen was when she lounged in her pajamas, and her legs were shown off, and even then, she’d layered illusion over illusion so he wouldn’t see the full extent.

If he were to see…well.

She sported one thick, gruesome scar that traveled from the back of her knee to the curve of her butt, and then thin, slicing ones that wrapped around her ankles, ten silvery lines as coarse as they were slim. She had thick, deep gashes on her knees, a lifetime of being bound, kunai stabbed into her thighs, and then one patch of burnt skin that had been from the time with the acid—

She gripped her keys.

_You don’t want him to see because you’re scared,_ the other voice purred inside her mind. _You’re scared he won’t recognize you anymore—not between the scars and insanity—_

She ignored it and this time, let the genjutsu settle over her skin, a miasma of deception clogging her pores.

The only one who she let see everything, had been Kiba. And that had been after months and months and months of pestering until she finally couldn’t _take it anymore_ and stripped down to her underwear, parading around the apartment until he’d had his full. He’d cried into her hair, and held her for an hour after, refusing to let go.

_(“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—“Tears soaked the hair at her nape. She let him draw her closer, saying nothing. “I’ll be here. I’m here. I’m—here—now.”)_

Kiba, Sakura winced, would definitely _not_ like her new ones.

Sakura edged the key into the old lock, jimmying a little, before it opened with a grunt.

There was a scamper of footsteps, a skid of movement, and then she heard little pattering footfalls, hastening towards the door. He appeared in the hallways, green eyes shining bright, smile widening on his cherubic face. His little tuft of black curls fell around his ears haphazardly, and they only mussed more when he threw himself at her.

“ _Nee-chan!”_ He shouted, arms gripping her sides. “Nee-chan you’re home! You’re home… _finally!”_

Sakura’s laugh sounded more like a sob than anything else as she dropped to her knees and dragged her little brother closer. She was vaguely aware of the door shutting behind her as she slowly began to acclimatize with the world she’d long since put out of her mind.

A month had been all it took to rob her of the warmth she felt now, layering her skin, filling her up like a hot drink on a cold day, heating her very soul.

_(She wasn’t in that crate anymore—she wasn’t a witness to the atrocity that had befallen her teammate.)_

She breathed in the smell of his lemon shampoo, the faint hint of sweat and the warmth of his skin, concentrating, concentrating.

Her anchors were all here:

Ryu—her little brother. Three and a half, with a gap in the middle of his milk teeth and sparkling green eyes. He liked the soap operas on TV and the slapstick humor shows. A little mischievous, a little reckless; he’d gotten in trouble with the grocery store last month for _borrowing, Nee-chan, I swear I was gonna give the tomatoes back!_ And kicking one of his schoolyard bullies in the shin.

Her little, rugged home in the outer ward of the civilian district—the smell of jasmine and pressed laundry met her nose and she felt tears burn her eyes. Her mother loved to leave rosemary bunches in closets (to ward the moths away, Sacchan) when she was alive and Sakura had kept up the habit with jasmine instead. If she lifted her eyes from Ryu-chan’s curls, she’d see that the walls were worn in and the paint a little cracked, and once, when she’d been fifteen, she’d let Ryu draw all over the corridor. The scribbled bunnies and lopsided cacti were still there in all their smudged crayola glory.

Her hands—they weren’t gripping kunai or branches or loose dirt or her katana. They were free; trembling and shaking, but still free. They were the hands full of callouses and scars, the hands that Ryu loved to trace with baby-soft milky skin and wondrous green eyes. ( _Will I have hands like you one day, Nee-chan?)_. They were the hands that loved—healed—instead of killed.

And when Sakura felt she could breathe a little deeper, she smiled into her brother’s hair, swallowed down the tears and whispered that she was home now, that he didn’t have to worry. He squeezed her tighter, and she felt the front of her jacket begin to dampen.

She was home—a little chapped and jagged around the edges, but home. Home and still sane of mind—of heart.

“Have you been good for Ms. Toya-san?” She asked quietly, drawing back on her haunches. Ryu-chan beamed at her, hands still clutched around her shoulders and she felt a little more than broken as she stared into his luminous green eyes and blinding smile.

“Up! Nee-chan! Up!” He tugged at her jacket. “ _Please?”_

She smiled again, impossibly soft and picked him up gently, settling him on her hip. She ignored the jarring from her injury, and kept him close as he wrapped his arms around her neck and pressed his face against her throat. She closed her eyes, keeping him closer, to remind her that she was her, that she was safe, that _he_ was safe.

Ryu nuzzled her hair, and pressed feathery kisses to her cheeks, a bright smile framing the innocent green eyes that followed her every movement as if she were his entire world.

“Yeah! She even gave me ch—chocolate?” Sakura nodded and he ploughed through his stutter. “Chocolate cake as a good boy gift! She said there’s some more in the fridge for later. For you, Nee-chan!”

Sakura chuckled and let herself into the small, cozy kitchen that sported several, battered, wooden chairs and a heavy mahogany table. It was a place where Sakura spent most of her youth. She remembered her Mother’s strong hands—from toiling in the fields—and her Father’s crinkling newspaper, the words lighting up in the pale sunlight streaming into their quiet home.

“Did Kiba come over before he left?” Sakura asked, setting her little brother down on the wooden counter, smiling a little as his chubby hands roved over the age-old grooves.

Ryu shook his head and continued to watch her as she moved around the kitchen. It was an old dance; she hung the katana on the hook over the door, untied her hair, letting it flow to the small of her back, and yawned, shaking herself out.

_Remember, remember, remember,_ she willed herself. _This is your home. This is your home. Nothing will hurt you here._

“Another mission, before?” She prompted, blinking once, twice, before shaking her head a little. She needed to _get out of her funk_ before little Ryu-chan noticed anything. Her brother sighed before stretching his hands over his head in a display of childish frustration, pouting.

_Home. Home. Home._ She repeated. _This is home._

“No, Nee-chan. Kiba-nii said he had _clan duties._ ” Ryu scowled as Sakura threw her head back and laughed.

She was just grateful it sounded less bitter than before.

“Oh Ryu-chan. Kiba can’t always come over to play, you know.” She tilted her head, pausing in the middle of stretching to grab the salt, watching his rosy mouth pucker further into a frown.

“I _know_ , Nee-chan. I’m not a _baby.”_ Ryu pouted, crossing his tiny arms over his small chest.

A sly, foxlike smile slipped onto her face and she stopped preparing the food she was going to cook.

“No, not Ryu-chan.” She whispered theatrically.

He nodded, eyes fierce.

“Ryu-chan is a fierce, brave, loyal shinobi! Isn’t that right?” She giggled softly, a smile stretching her lips further as she saw him beam up at her.

“Of course, nee-chan—ah! No!” Ryu shrieked, face screwing up in happy terror as Sakura danced her fingers across his sides, laughing crazed giggles.

“Sakura- _nee_!” he whined when she moved away, arms reaching out to grab her. He crawled over the counter and twisted himself over her shoulders, latching his arms around her neck, little pudgy legs locking at her waist. “That’s no fair!”

“Shinobi aren’t fair, Ryu-chan,” Sakura smiled fondly, checking the rice cooker Toya had given her last Christmas. It was an old one—a little rusty, a little bumpy—but it worked just fine and cooked rather quickly, always a bonus after a long mission.

It looked like it hadn’t been used in a while, and Sakura was glad that Toya hadn’t put it another portion of rice—the last time, the stupid thing had gone off too late once she came home and they’d had overcooked rice for dinner. Ryu had _not_ been a happy camper and that particular tantrum would be remembered for all eternity.

She could feel his chubby-cheeked pout against the base of her neck, his soft babyskin sliding against hers. His grubby little hands grabbed at the base of her rose locks and pulled lightly, playing with the long, silky strands.

“Sakura-nee’s hair is the prettiest.” He yawned against her skin, and she could imagine his innocent eyes crinkling in exhaustion, his brow furrowing as his pout deepened.

_He waited for me,_ Sakura thought. _He was worried I wouldn’t come home._

The first time she’d ever set eyes on her baby brother, he’d been a wriggling, pink mess of newborn limbs and half-hearted screams. She hadn’t been half as impressed—he looked rather like a potato with his smudged features and newly formed face—but when he looked at her with blotchy gray-blue eyes, his cries stuttering on his lips, she’d felt love creep up into her heart, warming her chest.

It was a fierce love—devoted and adoring, unable to be contested. Nothing came before Ryu, not now, not ever.

It was moments like these—when he whispered his affections and compliments and hugged her tighter than normal around the waist, her shirt still wet with tears—that she felt that fierce, everlasting devotion well up in her all over again.

“Thank you, Ryu-chan.” She said quietly, even though it pained her.

_(It had been her hair—her beautiful, prized, locks—that had landed her in that ANBU division. That and her baby face and her bottle-green eyes, the size of saucers in her pretty face.)_

Stirring the curry, and occasionally checking in on the rice, she hummed appreciatively as Ryu mumbled and moaned about his day. She learned that he had made her a new drawing in art today, and that Toya had already put it up on the fridge— _of our family, nee-chan; Kiba, you and me!—_ for her to see.

She listened to his tiny voice, comforting and melodic and let herself breathe. Her shoulders loosened, the strain behind her eyes washed away, the feeling of the pounding headache beginning to thrum at her temples dissolving at the sound of little Ryu-chan’s soft, whining voice.

“Sakura-nee?”

“Hm?” she mumbled, checking the rice again and noticing that it was nearly done. She’d have to take it out soon—the damned thing never quite got it right in the last minutes.

“Sakura-nee.” Ryu repeated, more firmly.

Immediately, Sakura began to worry.

It was a given that when children weren’t happy or carefree, she began to look for what was wrong. Ryu was a normally happy child. He was well-behaved and empathetic, and he ate all his vegetables—even his sticky foods, the ones he hated so much—if he was talking to her in such a serious, cautious tone, something must have gone wrong.

The tension that had bled away returned with a numbing vengeance. Her hackles rose, and she thought of all the things that could have gone wrong during the months that she was away—someone could have picked on him, Toya might have not fed him or hit him or _hurt him_ —god help the old woman if she _dared_ lay a hand on Ryu because she would need _spiritual intervention_ if that were the case.

So Sakura calmed, steeling herself for the very worst. “Yes baby—is everything alright?”

She kept her voice steady and thrumming, like the way her ANBU superiors did when the rookies began to freak out. The trick was well-used, and had served her well with Kiba as her partner. He was violent and tended to be rash and impulsive—something that even the six-month ANBU training courses hadn’t managed to beat out of him, much to the displeasure of Boar-taichou.

Ryu hesitated, and for a split second, Sakura contemplated (quite calmly, she assured herself) all the ways she could murder the person who hurt her little brother. She was skilled, enormously so, and there was little she couldn’t access with her level of security clearance.

It would _not_ be clean or neat and she knew just the places where she could strike to bleed out the most, the ways the flesh on their bones wouldn’t take away any life force when cut in the manner she chose—

“We talked about—about gee-nee-oh-loh-gee in school today.” Her little dragon whispered into her neck.

She both relaxed and stiffened.

“Genealogy? The study of family ancestries and histories?” She questioned, slowly, cautiously.

Ryu nodded against her, chin hooking on her shoulder.

Sakura hadn’t ever quite…addressed their parents before. It hadn’t been something she wished to relive. They were immortalized in her mind—tall and beautiful and kind and oh-so-loving—and the memories she had with them were some she did not wish to tarnish. Ryu had been too young to remember them—only three weeks old—and there were no other relatives to remind of their mother and father’s lives.

She had worried about it before. Whether or not Ryu would be upset at her for keeping all she knew about them to herself. Whether he found her guilty for their deaths. _Why_ they had died.

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

Sakura had tried, _so hard,_ to have a male presence in Ryu’s life. She’d been counting (funnily enough) on Naruto and Kakashi but—after Sasuke left, so had they—and she’d only had Ryu, and Ryu only had her. It had been when he was two months old that she realized that she was going to go steadily insane—and broke if she didn’t _do_ something.

So she’d enlisted her fellow operative—his name had been Soyu or Sai or something of the sort—to babysit once in a while and thankfully, he agreed.

She hadn’t been as close back then to the Konoha Eleven and she and Ino were still not on speaking terms.

It had been fine, of course, until she’d discovered just how _weird_ Sai was. More than once, Sakura had come home to find Sai just…watching her baby brother, taking notes, mirroring expressions of emotion on his face.

She had asked him about it once, hands curling into her palms, and he’d looked at her strangely for a minute, before poofing away on the spot. She hadn’t really seen Sai since, and to be frank, at thirteen and utterly _lost_ , that had been the straw that broke the camel’s back.

But, that was a different story.

“Sakura-nee, the curry needs to be stirred.” Ryu reminded her urgently, as the pan simmered dangerously high.

“Oh! Yes. Yes, thank you sweetie.” She started, immediately stirring the wooden spoon in the thick, gooey sauce and spiced meats. The smell of good food and warm rice filled the air and Sakura felt herself calm.

She was an assassin—an older sister—for Sage’s sake. There was little that she couldn’t compartmentalize and take apart later.

“So, genealogy?” Sakura hummed, “What did you learn, darling?”

“I learnt that Miya-chan has three older brothers. They’re ninja too! And Raido-kun has a baby sister with pretty eyes—but you’ve got prettier eyes than her nee-chan—and the teacher _also_ has an older sister! I told him that she wasn’t as cool as you and he _laughed_ —meanie.” Ryu said, carding chubby fingers through her lanky hair.

She had to take a shower—the sponge bath the nurses had given her wasn’t enough to clean away the grimy residue of the base, and there was nothing that she hated more than to let Ryu touch the _disgusting_ part of her life.

“Honey, not the hair.” Sakura chided him gently. Ryu whined a little, but let the strands go, and nuzzled his face further into the back of her neck.

“But…I only had Sakura-nee…” Ryu’s voice was muffled, but even then Sakura could hear the chord of loss echoing in his words. Her heart dropped to the soles of her feet. “Why don’t we have an Okaa-chan…or an Otou-chan? Is it…is it something we did—”

“ _No!”_ the shout burst from her lips before she could temper her tone, and Ryu recoiled, if only a little. “No, baby, no. This…it’s…”

She sighed, and checked the curry and the rice that simmered away in the cooker. The little green light had finally sparked, and she took out the plug, and opened the top to let it air.

_The meat is going to be tender enough to slide right off the bones,_ she thought absently, her brow furrowing deeper.

Ryu had wrapped his legs even closer around her, and his arms squeezed her shoulders even tighter. His little face was once again buried deep into the crook of her neck, and he had wrapped his fingers around the strands of her long hair.

Carefully, she maneuvered little Ryu so that he was sitting down on his high chair, hands and feet in proper position. His eyes were downcast, and his lip trembled as he clutched the edge of his seat.

Her heart broke to see him like this, but Sakura knew that this day would one day come.

Taking a seat in the rickety chair next to him, she reached for his face, and tilted his chin so his eyes could reach hers. His hands immediately searched her out, and she made an _oomph_ when he launched himself at her.

He let out a sniffle. “Did they not love us, Sakura-nee?”

“No.” she said softly. “No, baby. They loved us very, very, very much.”

“Why did they leave?”

There was a lump in her throat as she tried to speak, hoping that her voice wasn’t as hoarse as it sounded to her. Ryu needed her to be strong. She couldn’t allow herself to panic or to scream—he would break in the face of her insanity.

And Ryu would not be allowed to break.

“Okaa-chan was so happy to meet you, Ryuiji-chan. She sang to her stomach, and called you her little sunflower—you always moved when she sat in the long, heated sun. It drove her a little crazy.” Sakura laughed a little, memories tasting bittersweet on her tongue.

As she looked at her otouto’s inquisitive green eyes, his chubby cheeks, and soft, downy black hair, she hoped she had done her mother proud.

There was so much she wanted to tell them about him. That he combed his hair the wrong way at first, because he wanted to figure it out himself instead of her telling him. That he hated orange juice, but loved lychees. That he wrinkled his nose at bullies and never pulled his punches when the mean boys at the end of the street made fun of him only having a shinobi older sister.

That she loved Ryu, and there wouldn’t ever be a time where it waned.

“And Otou-chan?” Ryu asked eagerly, eyes shining bright. His fingers clutched her shirt tighter. “What was Otou-chan like?”

“He was grumpy.” Sakura confessed with a laugh. “Especially in the mornings. He worked as a carpenter, and he made the little crib that’s in the cellar—the one with all the wooden carvings of the dragons. Ojii-chan helped too, before he passed away.”

“…Really?”

He looked so eager for knowledge that Sakura was suddenly struck with the sensation that had prevailed with her throughout his babyhood. He would never know their parents like Sakura did. He would never know them as anything more than ideas, fictions that pranced in his mind like ill-described illusions.

(And it was the same for— _NarutoSasukeKakashi—_ how much did they guess? How much did they agonize? Sakura had some inkling, now.)

“They told me after I graduated from the academy. Kaa-chan was overjoyed. They’d tried for kids, after and before me, but she…she nearly always lost them.” Tears came to her eyes and she batted them away before Ryu could see.

She remembered those happy months vividly.

How joyous her mother had looked when they had told her she would be getting a new little brother or sister. How her father slaved away, back bent over his working table, hands tracing away at the bendable wood, muttering to himself about the necessary carvings. They both flipped through baby pamphlets even though they’d been through it all before when Sakura had been born.

She remembered herself, barely twelve, singing to her little brother, rubbing her mother’s bulging belly in the low light of the afternoon sun. She remembered the names they had picked out. The flower names _(to match little Sakura-chan)_ for the girls and the solid, brusque names for boys.

“And they loved us?” Ryu whispered, settling better into her lap, letting his face rest buried in her chest.

“Yes, Ryu-chan. They loved us very, _very_ much.” Sakura reassured, ignoring the pain in her chest and the tears burning behind her closed eyelids.

“What did they like?” He asked quietly.

“Okaa-chan loved flowers. All kinds of flowers. But especially the lilies and the sunflowers that came out during the hot summers in our garden. She liked the color blue and she never raised her voice. Her name was Asami and she was the daughter of a farmer from the land of rice. She always missed her home, though. And she never forgot to sing the lullaby—you know the special one—to me.” Sakura threaded her fingers with soft black curls and lifted him so he could better hear her heartbeat.

“Otou-chan liked winters. He liked the heavy rains and the floods that the village sometimes suffers through. His name was Gorou, and he was a grumpy old grouch. But a lovable one. He loved snow most of all. One of my oldest memories is rolling in the snow with him and seeing his bright smile as we threw snowballs at each other. He liked that we could drink hot chocolate and tell scary stories near the fire and cuddle for warmth.”

Ryu sniffled quietly, and Sakura said nothing as he buried his face into her chest and clutched at her tighter. His little sobs wracked his body, and Sakura carded a hand through his hair and held him closer.

“Hush, Ryu.” She said softly. “Hush, my little boy.”

“I—I miss them, nee-chan.” Anguished green eyes met with her own. “I miss my mama. My papa.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Sakura murmured, settling her chin on his head. “I know.”

He breathed softly, and she could feel the breath puff against her neck. She began to hum, quietly at first, and then with gaining crescendo as she rocked him back and forth. It was an older song, a melody she’d picked from her mother’s music sheets, dusty and decaying in the basement.

His fingers curled, digging into her sides deeply, but she did not utter a word.

She sang until he fell asleep, breathing softly, the trails of his tears having dried from his cheeks.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sO it's been a long time, but here I am!!! I've just started uni and so I'm a bit busy, but voila, here's another chapter. Hope you enjoy it!! Don't forget to review if you like it!


	4. Chapter Four

[There were times when she felt like she was going insane. Times when the clockwork in her head didn’t work quite how she wanted it to and the world _lurched._ ]

* * *

She washed herself obsessively.

Her hands smoothed over her puckered flesh, and ruined skin, and rubbed away the dirt, the grime, the touch. Red lines appeared over pale skin, and she felt the burn of her nails but she didn’t care. She must have used half a gallon of soap as she scored her fingers over her skin over, and over, and over, and over again. Her hair was neatly parted, and then scrubbed with so much viciousness, her scalp began to tingle.

In the bathroom, she reassembled herself. In the bathroom, she reinvented herself. In the bathroom, the thread of sanity laxed.

_I’m an older sister here._ She told herself, _kind, gentle, understanding. I belong to someone here, and someone belongs to me._

She dragged her fingers through her hair and tied it loosely at the nape of her neck. The locks were dry and soft and smelt of apple shampoo. It was the only cheap one that kept her hair shiny and healthy. Her face had been wan, and waxy; withdrawn and too pale. Now, her cheeks were red from the shower, and there was a gleam of obsessive concentration in her eyes.

She spread the moisturizer over her face, and rubbed it in, carefully, slowly. Sometimes, when she felt like she was going mad, and her thoughts wandered dangerously, she sat herself down in front of the mirror, and rubbed the lotion into her skin. Her touch felt foreign to herself—even now.

Sakura didn’t want to look at herself any longer, the disgust she felt at the sight of her own body made her throat close, like a noose around a guilty traitor.

But as her hands shook, and she thought of the man’s mouth between her legs, and her own voice filtering out in the dark room, she knew she had to _clean herself._

She dragged the razorblade over her skin, nicking any loose hairs, and running over her legs and thighs with soap and tweezers. She didn’t have much hair on her body any more—the acid burns, the scars and remnants of old fights had taken care of that for her, but she had to be clean.

To be perfect.

Sakura pulled the pair of long, comfortable sweatpants over her waist and tied a neat bow around her middle. The soft, cotton-blue shirt came next, and she felt calmer as she stared at the long-haired, green-eyed girl in the mirror and breathed.

_(I’m home. I’m home. I’m home.)_

She looked over herself, top to bottom, and then bottom to top. Her toenails were neat, and clipped, and had a fresh sheen of clear polish on them. Her fingernails as well; clipped tight to the nailbed, with a glimmer of green polish that remained to this day her favorite. Her eyebrows were shapely once more, and the sparse hairs around her mouth were gleaned before they could fully form.

She was clean.

Of course, she could still feel the lingering touch. The brush of a ghost against the nape of her neck, the sting of a slap against her cheek. Rough, unguided fingers jabbing at her thighs.

She curled in on herself; her arms came around her slender waist, and her chin tucked into her chest. She could feel his hands on her breasts, stomach, thighs. She could feel the metal of the kunai on her throat, and the bitter fear that had filtered through her at the thought of never coming home.

“You’re fine,” she whispered to herself. “You’re home now.”

Even the reassurance of her whispered words—a luxury she wouldn’t have allowed herself on the field—didn’t manage to calm her.

There was a nervous anxiety that thrummed underneath her skin, and she could feel the nausea and dread building up in her stomach.

_(There were days like these ones, days where she couldn’t focus, and her concentration was shot and all she wanted to do was **scream** —)_

She shook herself.

The chill of the night nipped at her skin as she made her way through the darkened hallways of her home. She stopped before she reached her room. Opening the door quietly, she peered into Ryu’s dark room, blinking to adjust to the pitch blackness.

He was sound asleep in his little cot, a hand grasping the twisted sheets tightly, the other wrapped around a dinosaur plushie. His mouth was open, and she could hear his soft, measured breaths from the doorway. His hair was a mess of riotous curls and she knew it would only be worse when he woke the next morning.

As she gazed on him, she felt warm. She felt safe, like everything that had happened to her, everything she’d had to do this past month was okay now. It was okay because Ryu was happy, and safe, and alive, and she’d come back to him.

She dared not think of the boy whose sister would never see him again.

_(“Do you promise?” gray eyes pleaded, “Do you promise to keep him safe?”)_

The bite of her teeth in her lip shook her from her thoughts.

Turning, she closed the door behind her, not letting it _click_ shut. If Ryu needed her, he still wasn’t exactly tall enough to reach the doorknob and she didn’t want to waste any time in reaching him if there was an emergency.

Her room was a mess of chaos and Sakura breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped into her room. Piles of dirty clothes sat, stacked, on her desk chair and medical books had slumped over to the floor; her floor was worse. Dirty socks, and filthy nightshirts—smelling of musky sweat and fear—lined her bedside. Teacups sat on her bedside table and the smell of old tea permeated her room.

She made her way past the mess deftly, and reached her closet, dodging the tumbled clothes that came hurtling out. Sakura knocked over pencils and books and reports as she searched for what she was looking for.

Her fingers caught on a soft, heavy knitted sweater, and she smiled. The pinch of ruined flesh made her wince, but she didn’t care. It was probably the only clean thing in her wardrobe at this point, and even though it had been sitting there for a month, it smelled like Kiba; freshly cut grass, dog, and sunshine earth.

She brought it to her nose, and breathed deep. Her shoulders fell, and she brought it closer to her, the tension in her frame relaxing. She stood there, in the half-formed moonlight, Kiba’s scent around her, and the block in the back of her throat receded, if only a little.

Sakura brought it over her head, careful not to nick it on any protruding clothes hangers, or zippers. It settled over her like a warm blanket, in all the right places, and she felt the warmth of comfort filling her like a golden hum.

She was tempted to lay back, and close her eyes, to enjoy the calm that had threaded over her; a rarity. But her muscles screamed, and although her body was lax, her mind still thrummed with anxious malice.

The yearn for release, for a second of calm, of quiet nagged at her until she was already moving back to the living room, and settling in the familiar forms of her kata.

Her arms rose high above her, and she arched her spine, before letting herself drift into a relaxed pose.

She’d keep up the genjutsu, for practice, she told herself.

She ran through each and every Kata in the standard issue taijutsu course that she’d learned in the academy, and then began to stretch herself further. She did all the _Dancing River, Dancing Stone_ katas. She completed _Sands of Dune_ and then went on to try a stance she’d learned from Lee, when she heard a knock at her door.

Adrenaline exploded through her.

Her breath hitched, and the feeling over her hair brushed against the nape of her neck, and instantly, she was on guard. The senbon she’d slipped in her sleeve bit against her skin, and she moved quietly to the door. Anger, and fear, hammered through her as she saw that Toya had clogged the peephole again, and she swore to herself that she’d have words with the woman.

Every inch of her body was taught as she opened the door. One false move, one quick flash of metal would be all it took before the senbon would find its way into the soft skin of the intruder’s throat.

Her teeth bared themselves at her snarl; a tall, muscled figure stood at her door, nearly reaching the top of her doorframe.

Relief, sharp and bitter as tears ran through her when she realized who it was.

A grimacing smile filled her face.

“You’re back.” Kiba breathed, brown eyes wide. He smelled of sweat and metal, and she could tell he hadn’t washed. There was a rushing of fur and then Akamaru moved into the light of her home. He barked jovially at her and Sakura made a soothing hushing noise.

Kiba stepped inside, closing the door behind them.

Sakura felt oddly nervous, and so her mouth began to run. “Ryu’s asleep, so be—"

Kiba’s tight embrace and the trembling of his hands against her shoulder blades cut off her quiet words quickly. His face buried itself in the crook of her neck, and Sakura would have flinched and recoiled if this was anyone other than Kiba.

“I was worried, Sakura.” He muttered gruffly, voice muffled by her hair and his sweater. He squeezed her closer to him until her ribs creaked. “A month. You were gone for a month when you told me a _week_ at most—and when Tsunade said you were in the hospital—I—”

His voice cracked.

“I’m fine,” Sakura whispered back, holding him back just as fiercely. She felt love, as fierce and warm as for Ryu rush through her, and as he whimpered, hot tears trailing down her neck, she finally lifted her hands to clutch at him. “I’m okay, Kiba. I…made it through. I got back.”

Akamaru circled her, nudging her sides with his big black nose, snuffling wetly at her flanks.

“I smelled your blood on her.” He said, voice hushed and broken. “I smelled the infection—God, what happened—”

“I’m home, Kiba.” She said. “I’m home, that’s all that matters now.”

He was quiet for a while and she let him. They stood, swaying slightly, in the entrance of her home, Kiba pressed up against her, tears wetting the collar of her sweater, hands trembling on her back. She was clutching him just as tightly, taking deep breaths, smelling the musk of sweat, fresh grass and sunshine earth that was _Kiba_ seep through her bones, settling in her skin.

 She had missed him, desperately. Missed his steady hands, and smart mouth, his twinkling brown eyes and rash, violent tongue.

There was a moment when she thought he wouldn’t let go of her, but he pulled away, slowly, and blinked at her. She reached up, and he let her brush away the tears that made his brown eyes crusty and red. He sniffed a couple of times, standing still as she checked him over for bruises or injuries and once satisfied, he leaned down and scooped her up, cradling her in his arms.

“ _Kiba!”_ she hissed at his sly grin. “Put me down—I’m not an—an infant!”

 “Naw. I kinda like it. Having you in my arms.” He grinned, pretending like his grip wasn’t tighter than usual, like Akamaru hadn’t kept his hackles raised, watching the door and windows for any sudden movement.

Sakura rolled her eyes, but the warmth still coursed through her like a warm fire. “Those lines still working for you, Inuzuka?”

“Of course and maybe if you’d let them, they’d work on you.” He chuckled, the sound reverberating deep in his chest, through her skin, reaching her bones.

God, how she’d _missed_ him.

He took her to the kitchen and then glanced down at her, laughing quietly (a feat for him) at her scowling expression. “I’ve got nothing but time to woo you, Sakura-hime.”

“Oh shove it,” She rolled her eyes, smacking his rib with a flick of her elbow.

He wheezed and Sakura giggled at his exaggerated choking.

“You _wound_ me, hime.”

“I saw you use those lines on that Suna chunnin literally last month, Kiba- _kun_.” Sakura said, wiggling out of his arms, making sure not to go too fast or too far away.

The Inuzuka Clan were, unsurprisingly, overprotective of their partners—both animal _and_ human. She’d learned the hard way that if she didn’t want Kiba hovering over her shoulder at her shifts at the hospital or to sleep in her home for the next six months, she’d let him touch and smell her at any time necessary.

So she didn’t particularly mind that his hands followed her, latching onto her tiny waist, his warm chest not much behind.

Akamaru yipped at her and she cooed, leaning down to press a kiss against his head.

“Were you a good boy?” She giggled, ignoring Kiba’s eye roll. Akamaru yipped only a little louder (Sakura had been _pissed_ when they’d woken up a one-year old Ryu and she’d had to deal with a colicky baby for the entire night and they dared not go louder than a shout when he slept) and bussed against her cheek. “I bet you _were,_ sweet boy.”

She was the only one who the ninken let baby him. Kiba claimed it was that he loved the attention from a _pretty lady_ and Sakura elbowed him in the gut.

“Curry? I made it before, but Ryu-chan fell asleep on me again.” She shook her head, smiling and Kiba hummed an affirmative and settled his chin on her shoulder, the bone digging into her soft flesh.

They stood like that for a while; Kiba pressed up against her and Sakura humming softly as she stirred the curry to warm up and heated the rice cooker once again, this time setting it to ‘warm up’ instead of ‘cook.’ There was something about Kiba that reduced her to a child again, an innocent, happy girl that only felt simple things instead of the darkness inside her head.

“How was your—“

“You smell of someone else.” He said quietly.

Sakura stilled. The curry sizzled in the pan and Akamaru began to whine as the smell of the meat wafted through the air and reached his sensitive nose. The rice cooker beeped but no one made any move to open it.

“Is that so?” She hummed.

“Don’t play stupid with me.” His lips brushed her neck and Sakura sighed, turning off the pan and reaching over to grab that plates she’d put out before.

Opening the rice cooker, she began to speak. “You know they call me every now and then, you _know this_ Kiba.”

He muttered something in her shoulder.

“What was that?” She asked sharply, spooning curry and steaming rice onto their plates, quickly and efficiently.

She let Akamaru have a little of the leftover meat and he guzzled it down quickly, before nudging her side gratefully.

“You know they don’t really ever let you leave that division, Sakura.”

“We are not discussing this now.” Her voice was hard but it still wavered as she turned to face Kiba’s angry brown. “I did what I had to do to complete the mission. You _know_ that it’s one of my talents—“

“It didn’t have to be!” He suddenly shouted.

Sakura’s eyes narrowed and Kiba swallowed, not paying attention to her darkening mood.

“If that fucker you call your sensei—“

“ _Language, Kiba!”_

“—Would have even for a _fucking_ second, trained you then—“

Sakura gripped his shoulder tight, tighter than she’d ever let herself on anyone who hadn’t been an enemy and his dark, angry eyes snapped down to hers.

He towered over her now, she realized. At thirteen he’d been scrawny, with knobby knees and knocking elbows, but now, at seventeen, he was a good two heads taller than her and quite a bit wider. His shaggy hair licked the base of his neck and the red tattoos on his cheeks seemed to make his scowl all the more feral.

“Kiba.” His eyes only darkened further and she knew that this was going to be one of _those_ nights, where he spent the time cussing out her ‘excuse-for-a-team’ and threatening to go over to the Hatake residence to ‘pay-a-fucking-visit-to-the-friend-killer’.

She’d ignored him for a week the first time he’d shouted that nasty name at her. Her sensei was a private man and she didn’t want him to be exposed, unless he himself wanted it. Even if a niggling part of her was burning with curiosity—why did they call him the friend-killer?

“Kiba, listen to _me._ ” Sakura shook him. She took a deep breath as he trailed a large hand down her spine, pressing his thick fingers against her vertebrae, as if checking she was all there, all _intact._ “It happened.”

His eyes flared.

“I had to do it. It was the only way. You _know_ why. We’ve talked about this Kiba.” And suddenly all the fight had gone out of her and Sakura was tired.

Tired from her mission and tired from recounting thousands of stories about her dead parents to an eager three year-old, tired from watching one of her teammates torn apart in the gruesome ways in her memories. Tired from remembering the yakuza’s sticky hands and his hot breath drifting over her collarbone, between her legs, her chest.

“I know.” Kiba spoke roughly now, as if preventing himself from tearing something apart. “I know, Sakura. I just get—I just get so _angry_ when—“

He seemed to struggle with words until he finally gave up and tugged her onto his lap, sitting them both down. He grabbed a fork and jabbed it into the curry, lifting it to her mouth.

Sakura raised an eyebrow, bottle-green eyes glinting in the moonlight.

“Did you eat when you got home?” His eyes were dark on hers.

Her silence was answer enough.

“You need to stop forgetting, Sakura.” He whispered.

She looked away from him, ashamed.

“Eat.” The fork nudged her lips, “I’ll feel better if I’m taking care of you.”

They—well _she_ —ate in silence, the only conversation passing through eye contact and the soft touches Kiba pressed against her silky skin.

After she was done, he picked her up (again, with the infant thing—but Sakura knew when to push and this was not one of those times) and trudged towards her room. Kiba undid the drawstring of her sweatpants, pushed her sweater over her head and tugged her socks away from her ankles.

He let her undo her bra quickly, but then his hands were back on her skin, slipping underneath her tank top, checking, roving, for any injuries.

Sakura was glad that she didn’t lift the genjutsu because Kiba would have gone on a murdering rampage and frankly, Sakura didn’t feel like losing her partner to the Yakuza again. One teammate had been enough for her, thank you very much.

Once satisfied, he tucked her into bed, Akamaru following behind them and settling at the base of the wooden structure, a growl telling her he was watching, waiting, for anything that could happen.

Kiba unlaced his shoes, undid his pants and slid out of his shirt until he stood in his loose boxers, toeing off socks and undoing his hit-ate, before slipping into bed.

“Sorry.” He whispered against her skin, before lifting her up and sending her sprawling across his chest with a light oomph.

He grinned when she sighed.

“I know how it is, Kiba. Just let your instincts do their thing.” She mumbled drowsily into his bare chest.

She fell asleep to his caressing hands and his muttered sleep talk.

_She was home._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it! Thanks for reading????


End file.
